Who, nurst with tender care,
And to domestic bounds confined,
Was still a wild Jack-hare
COWPER.
'Mary,' said Mrs. Frost.
Mrs. Ponsonby was sitting by the open window of the library, inhaling the pleasant scents of July. Raising her eyes, she saw her aunt gazing at her with a look somewhat perplexed, but brim full of mischievous frolic. However, the question was only—'Where is that boy?'
'He is gone down with Mary to his cottage-building.'
'Oh! if Mary is with him, I don't care,' said Aunt Catharine, sitting down to her knitting; but her ball seemed restless, and while she pursued it, she broke out into a little laugh, and exclaimed, 'I beg your pardon, my dear, but I cannot help it. I never heard anything so funny!'
'As this scheme,' said Mrs. Ponsonby, with a little hesitation.
'Then you have the other side of it in your letter,' cried Mrs. Frost, giving way to her merriment. 'The Arabian Nights themselves, the two viziers laying their heads together, and sending home orders to us to make up the match!'
'My letter does not go so far,' said Mrs. Ponsonby, amused, but anxious.
'Yours is the lady's side. My orders are precise. Oliver has talked it over with Mr. Ponsonby, and finds the connexion would be agreeable; so he issues a decree that his nephew, Roland Dynevor—(poor Jem—he would not know himself!)—should enter on no profession, but forthwith pay his addresses to Miss Ponsonby, since he will shortly be in a position befitting the heir of our family!'
'You leave Prince Roland in happy ignorance,' said Mrs. Ponsonby, blushing a little.